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Salinger found himself in a difficult position. He had grandiose plans for his Glass family series that he was unwilling to abandon. The rebuff of “Zooey” seemed to block his aspirations. There were also financial considerations. Nine Stories and The Catcher in the Rye sold consistently at a brisk rate. The royalties were handsome but not guaranteed. Salinger now owned his own home on 90 acres of property and had recently done extensive work on the grounds and cottage. He also had a wife and newborn baby. If cut off from The New Yorker, he may have worried, how would he support his family?

In this uncertain atmosphere Salinger did a desperate thing: he turned his eyes to Hollywood. He swallowed his disgust over the mistreatment of “Uncle Wiggily in Connecticut” by filmmakers in 1949 and considered selling the movie rights to yet another of his Nine Stories, this time “The Laughing Man.” To represent him to filmmakers, Salinger employed H. N. Swanson, who was a business partner of Ober Associates. Swanson, known to his friends as “Swanie,” was the most renowned and successful writers’ agent in Hollywood.* He had represented William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway, and, most notably, F. Scott Fitzgerald. If Salinger were forced into the distasteful position of relinquishing the rights to “The Laughing Man” to an industry he loathed, he would, at least, be in prestigious company.

When Swanson approached Hollywood producers with Salinger’s offer, their reaction was predictable. They were excited, but it was the prospect of transforming The Catcher in the Rye to the screen that thrilled them. This Salinger refused. In fact, his offer came with a further caveat: he would in no way participate in the adaptation of his work. He was willing to sell the movie rights to “The Laughing Man,” and that was the end of it.

Broadway too had its eyes on Catcher. The famous director Elia Kazan implored Salinger to allow the adaptation. When the breathless Kazan had persuaded his last, Salinger simply shook his head and murmured, “I cannot give my permission. I fear Holden wouldn’t like it.” The matter was over but the story quickly became legend.19

There was perhaps another explanation for Salinger’s sudden reticence toward Hollywood and Broadway, aside from the wishes of Holden Caulfield. On November 8, 1956, Salinger received a check from The New Yorker for “Zooey.” William Shawn had overridden the decision of his editors and determined to publish the story despite them. Moreover, Shawn had resolved to edit “Zooey” himself. For Maxwell and White, the event must have been chilling. In overruling them, Shawn had not only chastised the editorial staff for its arrogant shortsightedness but also aligned himself with Salinger completely. For the next six months, Shawn and Salinger alone would work on revising “Zooey,” away from the scrutiny and influence of anyone else at the magazine. They barricaded themselves into Shawn’s office for days, relentlessly refining the story one word at a time. As they did, the two men became the closest and most devoted of friends. William Shawn saved not only Salinger’s novella but also his association with The New Yorker itself, and Salinger would never forget it.

In revising “Zooey,” the greatest obstacle seems to have been the story’s length. As it had with “Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters,” The New Yorker demanded that Salinger “compress” the story to fit the magazine before it would publish it.* In its final form, “Zooey” runs to 41,130 words and is Salinger’s longest work apart from The Catcher in the Rye. That he labored to condense the story for an additional six months after Shawn purchased it is some indication of its original size.

Naturally, Katharine White grew enviously fascinated by the clandestine goings-on within Shawn’s office. Attempting to expand her involvement in the project, she sent a number of letters to Salinger expressing her keen interest. By late November 1956, Salinger appeared to be making substantial progress in reworking